


One Day

by tea (SPICEandTEA)



Series: Before We Say Goodbye [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Dining, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, London, Shopping, Tourism, date
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-03
Updated: 2012-09-03
Packaged: 2017-11-13 11:01:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/502813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SPICEandTEA/pseuds/tea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So what exactly are we doing?”</p><p>“Going out for the day. A day in London.”</p><p>“Who are we chasing and what did they do?” </p><p>“John, there is no case. No criminal, no crime. I don’t like repeating myself but since you seem to be off your game, I suppose I will. We’re going out for the day. A day in London.”</p><p>Sherlock and John spend a day in the city together. The question is; why?</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Day

 

 

John stands outside the door to the flat.  He left for work at 8 am, the usual, went to do his daily shift.  It was two weeks since John broke the news to Sherlock and nothing has changed. Same bantering, same behavior, they even had a case that lasted four days, which was long considering Sherlock’s track record.  But now John is standing on the steps of his flat at 9:32 am.  Apparently, Sherlock had been _nice enough to call in sick_ for him and Sarah _hopes he recovers from his swine flu soon._

What is that nutter thinking?

“Sherlock!” John calls as he climbs the stairs to the flat.  He takes off his coat, “What the hell were you thinking? Calling in sick for me…I’m perfectly fine.  And I don’t know what you’re planning but—”

“Don’t even bother taking off your coat, John,” Sherlock says, bounding out of his room with a skip in his step that makes John’s eyebrows rise in confusion. “We’re going out today.”

“Out? Out where? Wait, is this why you called in sick for me? So—so we can do what you want all day!”

Sherlock grabs John’s coat, helps him into it again (the nostalgia made John’s eyes sting. This won’t last much longer) and is out of the flat into the street without another word.  John sighs, checks his pocket for some money and, surprised to actually find some, follows his flat mate down the stairs.  There’s a cab already waiting.

“So what exactly are we doing?”

“Going out for the day. A day in London.”

“Who are we chasing and what did they do?” Sherlock looks at John in a state of confusion. “I’m not an idiot, Sherlock. Whatever we do is always, _always_ , for a case and since I’m missing a day of work for this, I’d like to know what’s going on.”

Sherlock frowns, “If you must know, right now we’re going out to breakfast.”

“Sherlock…”

“John, there is no case. No criminal, no crime. I don’t like repeating myself but since you seem to be off your game, I suppose I will. We’re going out for the day. A day in London.”

John blinks. Once. Twice. Three times.  “Wait, wait, so there’s really no case? Nothing of the sort? We’re actually going out…we’re actually going out just to be in the city for the day.”

“Yes John, do keep up,” Sherlock concludes with an exasperated sigh. “Ah, and it looks like we’re here.”

 

 

 

 

They have breakfast at a little café called Marylebone, a seat by the window of course.  Sometimes John wonders if Sherlock picks window seats because he knows John likes them, or if it’s just to give the detective a distraction from something as boring and mundane as eating.  John doesn’t mind either way; he’s eating a great sausage sandwich with a cup of tea.  Sherlock got a toasted croissant and ate the whole thing.  The whole thing. John finds himself staring.

“What?”

“You ate.”

“Good observation, John. Obvious…but good.”

“No, no,” John stutters in disbelief, recalibrating, “You not only ate…you ate everything. The whole…the whole bloody plate.”

Sherlock glances down at his empty dish, slightly confused. “Yes, yes I did.”

“Sherlock…what are we doing today, really…this must be something important—some special occasion or something. You…you don’t eat a full meal unless it’s for something important.”

Sherlock’s face shifts into a confused expression. Genuinely confused.  Bewildered even.  John doesn’t know what’s more amazing, the empty plate or the look on his face.  But Sherlock recovers quickly, face transforming back into its stone expression. He pays the bill and stands.

“Have you thought that maybe I was hungry? Now, come on, John, we still have a full day ahead of us.”

With a heavy sigh, John is on his feet and out the door once again, another cab with Sherlock inside waiting at the curb.

“So…where to Mister City Goer? Seeing the sites? Museum of Natural History? Trafalgar Square?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I was thinking about heading over to Knightsbridge, there’s something I need to pick up.”

John can’t help the smirk on his face.  Here we go, the real reason why they’re out.  But still, a twenty minute cab ride?  Sherlock never strays that far from the flat. “What are you getting all the way out in Knightsbridge?”

Now Sherlock reveals his smirk, “Something you need.”

 

 

 

 

“A suit?”

“Yes John, I honestly don’t know how you survived so long without one.”

John can’t believe this is happening.  Harrods.  He’s standing in bloody Harrods! He’s only been here once or twice just to see what it was like.  When he was young, his friends would walk through and pretend to be rich as a joke.  But now he’s standing in Harrods with bloody Sherlock Holmes because he ordered him a suit.  What the hell is going on?

“Sherlock…why would you order me a suit?  I already own a suit.  And how did you get my measurements?  Don’t tell me you— you know what? Nevermind. Don’t tell me, I don’t want to know.”

Sherlock takes John by the arm and they move to the side of the store.  “Every man should own a fitting suit, John.  You have two suits; both old ones from your father in blue and black.  Your father was taller than you; the trouser legs are obviously too long.  You’ve tried to roll them up but it only makes you look shorter because you crease the bottoms in the process.  However, because of your time in the military and workout regime, you’re broader.  Your shoulders are more muscular than your father’s, making the jacket too tight around the arms.  You can’t move around well in your suits. And you own all those horrific checked shirts…” He trails off in disgust before he continues. “Every man should own a fitting suit, John, including you. And since you obviously don’t have one, I took the liberty to get one for you.  You don’t need to be embarrassing yourself at formal events with your attire; your choice of women accomplishes that perfectly as is.”

John processes the information for a second, trying to ignore all the insults twisted in.  Sherlock just wants John to have a suit.  All right, that’s manageable.  Maybe Sherlock doesn’t want John embarrassing him if they happen to go out something nice.  Or Sherlock damaged his suits in some experiment and is covering his tracks.  That’s probably it.

“All right, all right…I won’t give any promises about buying it but…but I’ll try it on, okay? Since you went to all the trouble…”

The ghost of a grin on Sherlock’s face is unnoticeable to most, but John sees it.  With a sigh, he takes the suit from the rack that has a tag with his name on it in fancy calligraphy and goes to the back to get changed.  Something is definitely going on that John doesn’t know; he can’t shake the feeling.  Sherlock’s acting like himself but…he would never be doing anything of these things.  Taking off for John, eating a meal, and he tries not to think about the suit. What is really going on?

John walks out in his “new, custom-made suit.” It’s a medium grey color and, honestly, it’s great.  It is the perfect length and fit like a glove.  Soft fabric, slimming, and it came with a purple shirt (he wonders why…) and a satin tie the color of the suit. He looks nice, he feels nice and, unfortunately for him, Sherlock can tell.

He smiles, all dimples and stupid cheekbones, and teeth and John is nauseous.  There’s a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach and he wishes he could die. Its dread: Dread and fear and anger and sadness.  At times during the day, or at random moments, he gets this feeling.  The feeling that everything’s going to end…it’ll all be over.  Sometimes he wonders if Sherlock feels it too.

“It’ll do,” Sherlock says, but he still has the look on his face and John knows he likes it a lot. He just sighs.

“I don’t have the money for it, Sherlock.”

“But you _need_ it, John. I’m sure if I could just steal from Mycroft—”

“No Sherlock. That’s out of the question.”

“John.”

“It’s not going to get any use. It would be a waste of money, yours or mine.”

“John, I wear a suit every day. Surely you could find something to—“

“I’m not going to _need_ it, Sherlock.  I’m going away!”

They are silent.  John’s left hand shakes and Sherlock turns his back so no one can see his face.  They each freeze for a moment; staring at the floor, composing themselves, before John takes off the suit, and they leave without another word. 

The cab is where they left it.

 

 

 

 

Dinner was a tad awkward but survivable.  He doesn’t remember where they went or what he ate, but it he knows he liked his food.  Sherlock didn’t eat anything, of course.  It must’ve been his attitude.  John regrets the childish outburst, how ridiculous of him.  They were actually having a decent day until he decided to ruin it with his sentiment…maybe that’s why Sherlock just dismisses it all the time.

The last couple weeks have been tortuous for him, but it would be juvenile to lash out or complain or cry.  Still, he can’t get over the feeling of anxiety and dread.  The deserts are waiting for him and all he can do is live his daily life pretending his future isn’t filled with sand and blood and pain. How he not gone mad?

“John...John.”

He is pushed out of his thoughts by Sherlock shoving him into another cab.  Honestly, John has no idea what the point of this day is.

“Where are we going now?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“Sherlock.”

“Is there something wrong, Sherlock?”

No answer; of course not, this _is_ Sherlock Holmes.

“You know, if there’s anything you want to talk about…we can talk about it.”

Still no answer.  John gives up with a sigh and starts looking at the blur of the scenery as it passes.

They have time, they can figure this out.

But a month and a half will pass very quickly.

 

 

 

 

“Sherlock…”

“John?”

“How did you manage this?”

“A few calls.  As you know, there are people that owe my favors.”

“But—but this?”

“I also happen to know someone who runs the British government, John, as you know.”

It’s a little past nine and darkness covers the city.  The London skyline looks like a painting, its bright lights casting shadows on the streets and people below; hiding the violence in the dark alleyways and the transactions in the street that John and Sherlock know so well.  The river acts as an impressionist mirror, reflecting the buildings and lights but giving them a swirl of abstraction like an artist would use on his work.  This is the London John grew the love, the London John left and will have to leave again.

This is the London John sees sitting next to Sherlock on the London Eye as it casts its large shadow above the beautiful city.

“So you are Mr. City Goer after all?”

“I thought you would appreciate the view.”

“But why?”  John swallows, he’ll risk it one more time. He’ll ask. “What was today? Some crazy scientific holiday?  An experiment?  Going out…with you, doing all these things, it just…well, it doesn’t add up.  Sherlock, what did we just do today?”

Sherlock moves around in his seat awkwardly.  John can’t believe his eyes.  Sherlock’s nervous? No…he’s embarrassed.

Sherlock Holmes is embarrassed.

“I only presumed that you would want to spend a day in the city.  You always say you couldn’t imagine living anywhere else; that _is_ the reason you entered the flat share with me in the first place.  You need to acclimate yourself with the city and remember it.  Keep every detail in your mind, so you don’t forget.”

“Sherlock…I don’t…”

“Don’t forget London when you leave.”  There’s silence, he lets the statement hang in the air.  “You need to remember so you won’t be lost when you come back.  Obviously, it would be troublesome if we’re on a case and you forget where certain things are, of course, but random holidays and trips and other things of the sort… I was told that that is what friends do to create instances of sentimentality that will remain in the psyche for prolonged periods of time.”

The hole in his stomach is back and it’s draining and it hurts.  Sherlock doesn’t want John to forget him.  This is the way the genius that is Sherlock Holmes says he doesn’t want John to forget, that’ll he’ll miss him, that he doesn’t want him to go; with expensive clothes and fancy dinners and _Sherlock ate_ and gave John the strangest looks when he asked if it was a special occasion.  Sherlock thought it was, because he wants John to have memories of London and him that aren’t running after criminals and looking at dead bodies.  He wants John to have good ones too.

John smiles and turns to look at the view of the city that has given him too many things…he’ll be in debt to it for the rest of his life.

“I could never forget any of this, Sherlock.  Never. No matter what happened to me.”

The ride eventually comes to an end and, like the small amount of time they have together, neither of them want it to stop.


End file.
